Beautiful
by lucky-duck
Summary: Three best friends' reflections on the Cya/Skids relationship. Only rated R for use of "the f word."
1. Latino On Italian

~Disclaimer: I own nothing related to BmB. I wish I did, b/c Skids and Cya and Fox and Collin are all SO HOT... *melts* But yeah, you get the point. have fun, feedback appreciated!!~  
  
Beautiful. Abso-fucking-lutely beautiful.  
  
I read somewhere that the worst way to miss someone is to be sitting right next to him or her and knowing you can't have him or her.  
  
Whoever said that was a genius. An absolute fucking genius.  
  
I miss him. Sometimes that pain is so great I would do anything to make it go away.  
  
And then, in those moments, he does something that, even though it's so comforting, it makes the pain hurt more, because I can't do it back.  
  
Sometimes I do return his actions, but only when I'm sure that they won't wreck my reputation as a hetero.  
  
My rep. Oh, sometimes I wish I could just say "Fuck it all to hell" and then go be with him, showing more PDA's than is required to get the point across, not because I have to, but because I can.  
  
He's so beautiful. And I don't even have the balls to tell him.  
  
I hate needles. Few people know that, he being one of them. But somehow I can manage to gather up my courage to forget my fear and get another piercing, another tattoo.  
  
And for some reason I can't gather my courage and face my fear of being seen as gay.  
  
Who cares if I'm gay? Harls is gay, and everyone likes him the same.  
  
...But I don't like boys.  
  
...But I love him.  
  
...And I wish I didn't, because then my life would be much less confusing.  
  
...But at the same time, I love loving him, because he is so different from everyone else. He is one of those rare people who won't take the world for granted, no matter what.  
  
We went to a church once, and he fell in love with the stained glass windows. He stood there for a long time, moving as the light moved, admiring the colors on his skin.  
  
He made me go stand with him, and we traced the patterns of colors on each other's skin for an endless amount of time. It was beautiful.  
  
He was so beautiful.  
  
They tore the church down a while later, and I saw the tears in his eyes when I told him it was gone.  
  
"What about the windows?"  
  
"They were given to another church."  
  
"Where?"  
  
"I don't know, amigo."  
  
He was so sad... I hate seeing him sad. It hurts both Harls and I when he's sad, but it hurts me more.  
  
All because he is so beautiful, and when he's hurt that shine he has is dulled.  
  
I never want to see him like that again.  
  
Ever.  
  
I never EVER want him to be sad because his colors are taken away. Of all things, that is the worst you could do to him.  
  
...Another thing I love about him is his hands. He's our keyboardist, you know, and his hands reflect it. Long fingers, skinny, although not bony or knobby, like some skinny fingers are. When he touches things, he touches them like they are fragile, about to break, and yet he presses down hard.  
Like the time we were in my room, talking, and he was tracing the lines on my palm. He held my hand still with his left, firmly, but not hard enough to hurt. His right kept tracing my palm over and over, just his forefinger touching it, never letting go.  
  
Sometimes I wonder if he ever notices things like that about me. He seems so innocent, like he doesn't understand. Like he wouldn't understand if I told him I loved him.  
  
But then there are times when he is the deepest person I know. Like, even though on the outside he seems shallow and stupid, he goes deeper than everyone else in the world.  
  
I read somewhere that mentally handicapped people are actually the smartest people in the universe, but, so they don't reveal the secrets to everyone else, they can't communicate these ideas with normal speech or anything. Like the important information is taking up their entire brain and they don't have the normal parts for speech and movement, or maybe they do have them, but they're used for storage, like a room in your house that's supposed to be a bedroom but it's used for keeping the boxes and furniture you never use.  
  
...Listen to me. I think I've adopted his ways of thinking, meandering from one subject into another.  
  
...The most beautiful person I know is sitting right next to me right at this very moment, but I can't tell him.  
  
But, sometimes, I think he already knows. 


	2. Italian on Latino

You know what? My best friend in the whole world loves me.  
  
And you know what else? I love him back.  
  
I don't think he knows that I know about him, though. I think he thinks I won't get it because I have a tendency to wander off and watch the people around me do their own thing.  
  
But he's wrong. I understand him better than he does.  
  
He is so wonderful. Me and him are always thinking the same thing. If we're bored, we'll bring out the Crayolas and draw pretty pictures, or sometimes we'll bring out the markers and draw pretty pictures on each other.  
  
Then I have a perfectly good reason for staring at him for hours on end.  
  
I love to draw on him. His body is so curvy and beautiful, and it only becomes more curvy and beautiful when I cover it in my beautiful pictures.  
  
One time, he drew this line-thing from my nipple all the way down to the line where my boxers started, and I knew he wanted to go farther down than that. I know he likes staring at me, too, and that's another reason why I like it when we bring out the markers and color on each other.  
  
I like hanging out with him at his house better than at my dorm, because his house is so full of life and it's all DIFFERENT. His Mama is there all the time, the authority. All of his little sisters have their own personality, with the exception of the twins. They share a personality. And then there's all the animals. The ferrets, who remind me of me sometimes, all happy and bumbly, and then the bunny, he's all white, a pure white, like he's an angel or something, and then Letterman, the biggest dog I've ever seen in my life.  
  
Letterman likes me a lot.  
  
My house isn't like his. I don't even have a house. All I have is my dorm, where I'm by myself. At my parents' house, it's just my mom and dad. It reminds me of a museum there.  
  
It's cold, quiet, and you can't touch ANYTHING.  
  
I'm one of those people where I like to touch things. My favorite thing to touch is him, because his skin is always so soft and the same color of chocolate milk. I can't ever drink chocolate milk anymore because then I think of him and then I spill it on my white shirt and then I stain it. I never wear it again after that, but I save it, because then, if I do pull it out to muck it up from painting or something, then I can be the same color as him, until it gets stained more with other, different, happy colors.  
  
A thing I would love to try with him is to buy body paint and then leaves stripes and dots and handprints all over his body. And then he can do that to mine, and then we can take pictures, and I would make them huge and put them all over my walls of my dorm. He would be very beautiful, dressed up like an Indian going to war.  
  
I did that once at Harley's house. I stole Mikhael's watercolor paints, and then painted a Buffy story on his walls after painting myself like an Indian.  
They weren't happy with me.  
  
The walls there are so white and not colorful. They need to make them happier. Like, we could take out all the furniture and lay down some sheets and then finger-paint the walls with happy colors, like yellow and purple and green. And then, we could all paint each other and take lots of pictures and I would put those on my walls too, me and him and Harls and Mik.  
  
Maybe even Tabs and Allen and 'Sheequa, if they wanted to.  
  
But I don't think they would want to.  
  
I know that my two bestest friends would like to do that. I don't think Mik would be happy though.  
  
I got off track again.  
  
I do that a lot, you know, change my train of thought. It just goes that way.  
  
That's all.  
  
I know he likes it like that though. It keeps things interesting.  
  
I wonder of he ever thinks about the time in the church. He didn't want to come into the lights with me, though, he wanted to stay away and not be colorful, but then something clicked in his head and he came and stood with me, and we made patterns in the colors on our skin.  
  
That was ubershibby.  
  
I love touching him. It's comforting, like ice cream on a sore throat or a hug at the exact right time you need it.  
  
I want to touch him right now. He's sitting right here, right next to me, right at this second. But I know he's thinking hard about something, and if I just touch him for no reason he'll move away.  
  
I want him to move to me, not away from me.  
  
I just want him...  
  
One time, I was tracing his palm, and it was the most beautiful thing he and I ever did together. He just sat there, watching me, and I just lay there and traced his palm back and forth and back again. I never wanted to stop, but then Harley came in and stopped us because we had to leave to go to our gig.  
  
Maybe it was good he stopped us. Sometimes I think that if he hadn't stopped us all those times it would've gone farther than we both wanted it to.  
  
And things would get weird.  
  
And I don't want things to get weird.  
  
I just want things to stay the same, and yet at the same time be different, so we can have each other and not have to worry about anything. 


	3. Everything Becomes Beautiful

Cyanide and Skids sat next to each other, each reading their own magazine and waiting for Harley to get out of the shower so they could run over, pick up Rasheequa, and then go to the gig they had.  
  
Neither of them had turned the page since they opened their respective reading materials.  
  
Cya sighed, and set down his magazine on his left. "I can't concentrate," he suddenly said out loud.  
  
Skids set his magazine down on top of Cya's, brushing his hand lightly with his own. Cya pulled away and started picking at his nail polish, something he did when he was nervous.  
  
Skids' eyes fell when he did this, but only for a moment. He suddenly perked up at the thought of an idea, and said quietly, "Hey, Cya, guess what."  
  
"What?"  
  
"CHICKEN BUTT!!" he yelled, and dove onto Cya, finding every single one of his ticklish spots.  
  
Cya meeped at the sudden tickle-spree, but after a moment he got into it too, giving Skids a taste of his own medicine and locating all of his ticklish spots.  
  
They sat there, giggling and tickling, for a good 10 minutes.  
  
They didn't notice when Harley came out of the shower and was watching them.  
  
*^*  
  
Whenever they get bored, they tickle each other.  
  
It's like their way of making love. Mik and me know each other's hot spots by heart, and they know each other's ticklish spots the same way.  
  
I could watch them forever. It's beautiful.  
  
I know how they feel about each other. I know they think they've got everything hidden from everyone else, but they don't. I see the way Cy looks at Skids when we're at Cy's house and Skids is rolling around on the floor with Letterman, and I see the look in Skids' eyes when he touches Cy, especially that time when I went into Cy's room and there they were, laying together, Skids running his fingers over Cy's palm.  
  
I wish Cy would stop worrying about his rep and just tell Skids how he feels, or for Skids to stop waiting for Cy to tell him.  
  
Sometimes I wish I could just tell them.  
  
I'm not the only one aware of this situation. Mik and Cy were stuck in an elevator once, and Cy told everything to him.  
  
"Let's face it. Only reason I'm telling you is because we both know I'm never going to say any of this to Skids."  
  
He had said that to Mik, and Mik told me, even though he promised not to. I just shook my head and told him I already knew, and it was all okay.  
  
But now, as I stand here watching them roll together on my apartment floor, I understand why I haven't told them.  
  
It's because if I tell them, things will change. They'll stop their lovemaking, and after a while they'll stop touching each other completely. Then, after a while, things will get really awkward, and they'll stop talking, and the only thing holding them to each other will be me, and we'll all hurt because of that.  
  
And I don't want us to hurt like that.  
  
But maybe things will change the other way, and they'll grow closer, and then they'll have many different kinds of lovemaking, and not just their tickling.  
  
But I think that the only way for it to change that way is for them to make it that way.  
  
They have to build on their own relationship, like Mik and I have built on ours.  
  
They are beautiful, and they will always be beautiful, as long as they're together and at least friends.  
  
*^*  
  
A smile crept over Harley's face, and he giggled. The teenagers rolling around on the floor together suddenly stopped, a tangle of arms and legs and hair and wrinkled clothes.  
  
"C'mon, you two. We still have to pick up 'Sheequa and then get to the gig."  
  
They nodded and got up rather quickly, straightening clothes and hair and baseball caps.  
  
And in that moment, everything was beautiful.  
  
THE END 


End file.
